


Never Let

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin But Like Two Shades Darker Than Canon, Mild Sexual Content, Protective Merlin, Soft Arthur Pendragon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23942257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Merlin isn't innocent. Not entirely. He's bludgeoned fish, butchered rabbits, wrung the necks of countless pullets and pheasants with Mother guiding his hands, her gentle voice a stark contrast to the ruthless strength in her callused hands:always make it quick when you can, Merlin. Never let another creature suffer if you can help it.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 580
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	Never Let

People think he's an innocent. It's always their first assumption, and it is always wrong. Gaius thinks he is on account of his youth and his upbringing. Arthur thinks he is on account of his avid dislike of hunting, thinking he cannot stand the thought of killing. _What's the matter,_ Mer _lin? Going to swoon?_ the prince had teased the first time they hunted together, hefting his crossbow with a smile that was all teeth. _Afraid of blood?_

It isn't the blood, but what precedes it. Nobles hunt for sport, not necessity, and the more terrified the quarry, the greater the sport is reckoned. It makes him wonder if Arthur ever takes such pleasure in hunting sorcerers, if he would take pleasure in hunting _him._ He knows some of the knights would. He can almost smell it on them, the contained savagery, like hounds straining at their leads just waiting for the master's hand to slip their harness.

Still, Merlin isn't innocent. Not entirely. He's bludgeoned fish, butchered rabbits, wrung the necks of countless pullets and pheasants with Mother guiding his hands, her gentle voice a stark contrast to the ruthless strength in her callused hands: _always make it quick when you can, Merlin. Never let another creature suffer if you can help it._

Of all the things he learns in Ealdor—kings protect only that which has worth to them, those with strength are more likely to conquer the weak than protect them, the purpose of his power is what he decides it to be, secrecy amounts to safety when it concerns his magic—that lesson seals itself deepest into him, stays with him even when he leaves.

In Camelot, the snares he sets are made of magic, and they're set for bigger game than rabbits.

He makes it quick when he can. He doesn't let them suffer if he can help it.

* * *

_"It was you, wasn't it? It's always been you." Arthur kept his head turned away, gaze fixed on a nearby tree as though he meant to strip the bark from it with his eyes alone._

_Merlin didn't answer in so many words as he ran his hand over the prince's thigh, knitting muscle and tendon back together, keeping blood where it was meant to be. His silence was answer enough. Dark lines of drying gore have formed under his nails. Some of it was from Arthur, some of it from the beast on the lakeshore, sleek and supple as an otter, but larger than the prince's hunting hounds and thrice as vicious._

_"Why?"_

_There were easily half a dozen questions in that one word. Merlin parsed through them all with care, knowing that so much hung on his answer. "Because you are a better man than even you want to admit."_

_Arthur didn't look him in the eye the entire walk back to Camelot. But he didn't tell Merlin to leave him, either._

_So Merlin didn't._

* * *

Before court and council, Arthur seems to be shouldering his responsibilities as prince regent well.

Merlin knows it isn't so.

The signs come in inches and not leaps, like autumn, cool breezes and curling leaves and birds in formation. Arthur's hair dulls, missing the sun, flaxen highlights earned in hours outdoors fading. It grows longer too, slowly coming to cover his ears and curl against his neck, falling in his eyes. He's never allowed it to get so long before, not liking how it caught on his maille, how hot it made wearing a helmet. He always says that a warrior having long hair is folly, that an enemy could get a handful and yank one off-balance, and yet he doesn't call for Merlin to bring the scissors and razor.

There are other signs. Each in and of themselves are no cause for worry, but when taken together, they paint a more worrisome portrait. When Merlin arrives in the morning, the covers are still neatly turned down from the night before. When he takes away the tray after breakfast and supper, there's still enough food to make a full meal; Arthur doesn't take lunch anymore, spending the balance of the afternoon in council. When he goes to clean Arthur's maille, it fair gleams still, unused; the same can be said of his boots, his riding cloak. When he sinks into his bath, leans forward to dunk his head and wash his hair, Merlin can see the shape of his shoulder blades cleaner than he ever could before, the ridge of his spine and the cage of his ribs.

He doesn't say anything—if he does, Arthur won't argue with him, but he'll go silent and dismiss Merlin even if he's mid-task, which is worse, far worse. But sometimes, when exhaustion finally wrestles Arthur into submission, Merlin will hear him toss and twitch in his sleep, restless and afraid, and he'll reach out to run a hand over that darkened hair, still so soft, and tell himself a bit of soothing has never harmed anyone, especially not one who needs it so badly.

Arthur would scold him if he knew it was more than the touch of Merlin's hand that eased his dreams, would tell him to stop. Which is precisely why Merlin will never tell him. He can bear a great many things, can stomach the blood-smell of executions and stand in the square that has seen so many pyres there are lines of black soot and human fear permanently ground between the pavers, but he cannot watch Arthur whimper in his sleep. Not when he can help it.

* * *

Do no harm, _Gaius told him, his very first lesson, the physician's oath._

_Merlin has never heard such a thing in his life, and the first law was as foreign to him as the dragon's idea that his magic served only a single purpose and no other._ _His magic was him, and he was his magic. He served his own purpose._

_Even when it meant pulling lightning from the sky and answering the call of the Old Religion, demanding their price be paid. Nimueh was powerful, but she made the same mistake everyone did, thinking him innocent, thinking him a child, thinking he would shy from blood._

First, harm none, _Gaius's voice said in his mind, but when Merlin breathed in the power of the Old Religion, it was his mother's voice he obeyed_ —always make it quick if you can, Merlin— _even as bronze wings clamoured in his ears, wanting blood, wanting her to_ suffer.

_He gave her a swifter death than fire, a gift in exchange for the power she had shown him._

* * *

Agravaine is going to be a problem.

Merlin has known the man for less than a sennight, but it makes no difference to him. There is something off about that man, something not quite _right,_ and until he can understand what it is, he is going to trust Agravaine about as far as he can throw Kilgharrah. Being close and being clever isn't like being true. He doesn't say anything to Arthur about it, not yet, but he will be setting snares to see what he'll catch.

Not that Arthur needs another worry. The ones he has are already trampling roughshod over him, and Merlin has to mind his footwork lest he find himself with everyone else, cast out and cut off as though Arthur somehow isn't as human than the rest of them, as though he has no need to be loved or treated gently.

So he finishes snuffing the candles and turning down the bedcovers in silence, keeping half an eye on the familiar figure slouched in his chair by the fire. As he makes to leave, Merlin lays a hand on Arthur's shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. A quiet reassurance, all he's been permitted to give these past weeks, and one he tries to make last just a little longer with a brush of magic.

When he withdraws, however, Arthur moves with a warrior's speed, catches him by the wrist with one hand, and hooks the other arm around his waist. The prince regent leans forward in the chair and presses his head to Merlin's stomach, arm braced across the small of his back like an iron bar to keep him in place. A heartbeat's pause, then Merlin draws his wrist free of Arthur's hand, laying his palm flat between the sharp bones of Arthur's shoulder blades. His other hand comes up to cup the back of Arthur's head, fingers spreading through all that overlong, dulled hair.

The embrace lasts only a short span of heartbeats before Arthur goes tense and drops his arm, leaning back. "I-I'm…I must ask your forgiveness, Merlin," he says hastily, formal as he never is otherwise, as he never should be to a servant. "I should not have—you don't have to—"

Merlin touches that soft, full mouth, made for wine and love, silencing him sure as a blow. He draws his thumb across the shape of his lower lip, and a heavy shudder spreads through the other man, lashes fluttering. He strokes a hand down Arthur's hair, lowers his head.

When he kisses Arthur, the prince makes a sound that is almost a sob, mouth opening helplessly under Merlin's. He tastes of salt and grief.

* * *

_"You were going to sacrifice yourself, weren't you? If you hadn't killed her." Arthur was still so pale, shadows under his eyes standing out like vivid bruises._

_"You are my prince. My king," Merlin whispered as he stroked a hand over Arthur's shoulder, the ragged starburst of the Questing Beast's bite, which was true, though the only part that truly mattered was_ mine. _"I've killed for you. I'll die for you."_

_"Merlin." It's all Arthur said, perhaps all he could say._

_When he calls his power forward, taking the last of the pain away, drawing out the last of the Old Religion's venom—they have no right to him now, bargain made and kept—the magic that arced between his fingers looked like lightning, and Arthur didn't look away._

* * *

A trained warrior doesn't let anyone put him on his back, a prince doesn't let anyone put themselves above him, but Arthur goes willingly when Merlin pushes him down to the rich red sheets, slides a leg over to straddle his hips.

He makes that sound again, half a gasp and half a sob, at the first slick slide of his body into Merlin's. His head is tilted back, the vulnerable white line of his throat exposed, pulse visibly beating in the hollow of his neck. Rough hands rise blindly to clutch at Merlin's flanks, and callused fingers fit in the notches between his ribs just as the rest of their bodies fit together.

Arthur's heart beats in time with his; Merlin can feel it beneath his palm where both hands are braced on his chest, bound together by something far older and far more compelling than destiny. There's a power in this, too, powerful as life and death, potent as lightning called from a clear sky.

"Merlin," Arthur gasps out. It's all he says. Perhaps it is all he can say. He sits up to bury his head against Merlin's chest, arms clutched tight around him, and his fingers dig in hard enough to leave bruises as he shudders and spills warmth inside.

Merlin strokes the nape of his neck, lips pressed to sweat-dampened hair, and he pretends that the wetness brushing off onto his skin is only sweat.

Never let another creature suffer.


End file.
